


The Appointment

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Heavy Angst, Other, POV John Watson, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 20:30:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14089062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Sherlock is gone, so John uses his medical knowledge for one last adventure.





	The Appointment

**Author's Note:**

> Well. I found this as I was wandering through my half-written drabbles, hiding away, all complete and ready to be posted. I remember the prompt - reading a post on Tumblr about how a it's a little known fact that more suicides happen by those newly medicated for depression than those unmedicated (for the reasons in the story below). It struck me as painfully tragic - which of course lead to post-TRF John. Take hold of your knickers, folks, because there's no fun times here. Just pain and hopefully, some release at the end for John.

It was a delicate balance, weighing off the pros and cons, hoping for the sliver of luck required to carry it off. The insider knowledge of John’s old clinic tipped the scales in its favour in the end; there was always the chance that a new patient would be given alternatives first, instead of the prescription he was after.

The appointment was made very carefully. It needed to be a doctor who knew who John was, without knowing him particularly well. That knocked out Tana, Imogen and Henry, those hired in the last few months. He couldn’t push too hard for the prescription, which would be disastrous – it would be noted on his file, damning any future likelihood of getting it at that clinic. Those who knew him too well would smell a rat at his sudden change of heart, namely Sarah and Ben. James was out too – she’d been on a few dates with him and he was sure to mention John’s visit.

Amy, then.

John was a patient man, now that he’d made his decision. His target was Amy. His appointment was made to coincide with both the end of her working week and the busiest part of the day. It didn’t hurt that it was flu season and they would be run off their feet with snotty kids and miserable parents. Perfect.

John made sure he was on time, feigning flu symptoms for the casual observer. When Amy came in, he stood up before she could call his name, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

“Oh, hi, John,” she said with a quick smile. She looked stressed, he saw. Good. Less likely to make careful considerations. A beat of guilt flashed through him but he pushed it down.

They sat in her consultation room, and John brought out his best ‘masking the pain’ expression. He spoke about his grief, choking up enough to show it was genuine without making him seem too far gone. He could feel her eyes, empathetic but professional, sweeping over him, evaluating the same signs they all looked for in patients claiming depression. He’d been careful with his appearance, dressing in clean clothes, but not particularly well ironed; his socks matched, but he had not shaved today. A definite ‘made an effort but can’t quite go the extra mile’. It was almost too easy, with all the experience he’d had. He talked a little about Sherlock, allowing the pain to show on his face, not meeting her eyes, his embarrassment only partly feigned.

And finally, finally, she said the words he’d been hoping to hear. “Well John, I know you might not want to consider pharmaceutical help,” he allowed his face to twist into a slight grimace, “but I think antidepressants might be a good place to start. Have you considered seeing a therapist?” He admitted to letting his sessions with Ella lapse, promising to make another for next week. When Amy reached for her script pad, John was pleased she wasn’t able to see the relief in his eyes. “I can see you’re nervous about this,” she said, and he realised his hand was clenching and releasing; how fortunate that she’d mistaken his nervous relief as anxiety. “But it will help you feel better.”

Taking the proffered paper, John spoke his first truly honest words since entering the room. “Thank you. I’m counting on it.”

After the visit, John went home and slept for 14 hours. He didn’t even have the energy to fill his prescription. As it turned out, he didn’t need to. Mycroft Holmes’ reach was more extensive than he’d realised – the antidepressants arrived by courier the following morning, bearing a reminder that since it had been filled, his script was now not worth the paper on which it was written. John wanted to smile, but he couldn’t muster the energy. Instead, he took the first dose, emptied his bladder and went back to bed. The sooner they started working, the better.

+++

Sarah stood by John’s grave, the voice of her mental health course lecturer playing in her head.

“The most dangerous time is not when the patient is feeling their lowest,” he said, “but in the time following. Antidepressants carry a funny little warning.” She could picture him, reading off the bottle clutched in his meaty hand. “'May cause increased risk of suicide.' That might seem counter intuitive, but consider the following: Lack of energy is one of the notable symptoms of depression. So while a person at rock bottom might desire to end their life, they also may not have the energy to carry out their plan. However, if they begin a course of antidepressants, the lift in their energy levels may well precede an improvement in mood. Now, we have a person whose mood is still consistently low but they now have the energy to do things – get out of bed, make it to the shops. Write a final letter.” Sarah reflexively clutched at the note in her pocket, covered with John’s scrawl. “So that is the time in which they need the most careful monitoring; that is the time in which their life is most at risk.” The professor had blinked owlishly at this, his tone sombre. “Those of you who go on to work as GPs or in a mental health setting will not win all the battles. But knowing the perils is vital. Patients on a new script need constant supervision and support.”

His words rang in her ears, overlapping with the sound of John’s voice reading the words he’d posted to her those few days ago.

_“Tell Amy it wasn’t her fault. I knew what to say and how to say it – and she couldn’t have stopped me. For all my supposed bravery, I’m a coward, avoiding the pain of opening a vein in favour of a long sleep instead. Now everyone can stop worrying about the broken old soldier and get on with their lives. Best, John.”_

A tear slid down Sarah’s cheek, and she turned away from the fresh grave, facing the headstone beside it. “You take care of him, Sherlock Holmes,” she murmured, touching the cool granite with the very tips of her right hand. They stood in a small clearing, away from the rest of the graves. Just the two of them, together again.

 


End file.
